Dull and Disillusioned
by cherry-flavored antacids
Summary: Bob's had it with his parents, their appearance-driven lives, and the American Dream in general. Rated T for copious amounts of swearing and teenage angst.


Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns, so give her all the credit.

AN: This was a oneshot yesterday, but when I got two reviews requesting more—THANK YOU BOTH, BTW—I figured why not? So it's now a chapter fic. If you read the oneshot, I suggest you reread what is now chapter one. What you read yesterday was bare and didn't give enough insight into Bob's frustrations. He was kinda one-dimensional… Anyways, hopefully that problem's been solved. Reviews of all sorts are still most welcome. :)

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><p><strong>Dull and Disillusioned<strong>

-1-

It's no secret my friends would kill to have my dad. Anyone would trade lives with me in a heartbeat, and despite all grudges against the old man, it's no wonder. It _is_ nice to get off scot free, but everything gets old, even getting away with murder.

Still, why whine if no one understands? It must be great having a dad who cares about you more than his reputation, but the bastards take that for granted. They laugh when I wish my dad would get pissed and ask me how I could possibly want such a thing, but I do—wholeheartedly. I'd fucking give anything for him to lose it. _Just once_. You know, really go off on me like any father should when his son fucks up, which I do a lot—on purpose—to get a reaction that never comes.

Why complain, though? No one cares that my father's a joke. All they notice is that when they get grounded, when they get their asses tanned, when they get hollered at, I get jack shit, but I'd be willing to bet that if they actually lived my life for a week, they'd beg for theirs back. Maybe I'm just a spoiled brat, but the frustration adds up. I don't care what they say: it's better to have a dad who gives a shit than one who doesn't, even if it means getting in trouble.

I sigh loudly and stare at the ceiling tiles outside my dad's office, counting how many span the tiny room. Twenty-four? Twenty-three? Shit, maybe twenty-five … why should I care anyways? It's Friday, and instead of wreaking havoc with Randy, I've been sitting in _Realty by Robert S. Sheldon_'sheadquarters for twenty minutes. School just got out, and anything would be better than waiting on the old man to tell me that important something, the reason he asked I come. God knows why, but I'm sure it isn't important. Probably another stupid college application to fill out or maybe he finally noticed the three F's from last semester's report card. Mostly likely the latter, and boy will he flip over that. He'll say something like, _How can you expect to get into a good school with grades like that, son?_, or, _What will people think when they hear _my_ son's failing, Bob?, _but beyond that he won't do a goddamn thing. Never does. Never gets hacked about anything unless it slanders the good Sheldon name.

I could lie and cheat my way to straight A's, and if he found out, he wouldn't care. Randy's dad, on the other hand, belts him if he lies about anything, but not mine. Nope, he'd probably congratulate me and tell me that's how you get successful, that's how you make it to the top. I can hear him now, proudly rambling on and on.

He sure knows a lot about lying. _Cheating,_ too, if the suspicious noise coming from his office indicates anything. There'd been murmuring and giggling for a while, but that's typical office behavior, right? I'm supposed to pretend it's nothing. That's what we Sheldon's do best, after all; whenever anything in our perfect lives seems out of the ordinary, we ignore it, because god forbid we draw negative attention to ourselves, the world might stop spinning. So, nothing's wrong with the picture at all when the door opens and Dad slaps his secretary on the ass as she prances away. Nothing. Is. Wrong.

"Hi, Dad."

"Bob, what, er ... what're you doing here?" He scrambles nervously and straightens out his tie. "I mean, I didn't expect you so soon."

"Don't think Joan did either from the looks of it," I say, glaring at her.

"It's Jean_._"

"Excuse me, _Jean._" I scoff and roll my eyes. "Guess you've never introduced me to her, Dad." He gives me a pointed look, and I ignore it. "Real shame," I go on. "She sure is a looker."

"Robert," he warns, but I know there's no weight behind it, no threat if I cross the line.

"So, you wanna talk to me?" I ask, hoping to speed up the meeting and book it.

"As a matter of fact, I do," he says. "I have some college brochures to show you. A colleague gave them to me. They're good schools, Bob."

"Fantastic."

"You really should get to college applications soon, you know."

"I will," I tell him, but I won't.

"The deadlines are coming up," he adds.

"I know."

"It's about time you got to applying for school…" he says and proceeds to ramble about the same things I've a heard a million times. It's always about getting that business degree so I can take over the company, but no matter how many times I say I hate the goddamn company, it falls on deaf ears. I'm not exaggerating when I say I hate it, either. It doesn't take a genius to see he's screwing over his customers, pocketing their hard-earned money to buy a fancy new vacation home or another ring to appease Mom. One look at his bookkeeping is very telling.

The next time he asks about taking over the company, I'll tell him to go fuck himself; I'm not moral person, but I have _zero_ interest in what he does.

"Are you even listening?" he asks, inching closer.

I shrug. "Does it look like it?"

"You _are_ going to college, right?"

I ignore him and glance around the room. Jean's at her desk, fumbling with paperwork to appear busy. I smirk, slightly amused at her nervousness. She knows I'm her boss's son; she _knows_ I just witnessed that playful smack. There's a name block on the desk: _Jean Cade, Secretary_, it reads. She must be new, because I've never seen her before, but Cade looks familiar. I wonder if she's related to that Johnny Cade punk who sold me crushed up aspirin instead of cocaine months ago. What I wouldn't give to wring that fucker's neck…

"Bob..." Dad tries to get my attention, but I'm too busy staring at Jean. She looks younger than the old secretary. Probably thirty-something. The longer I look at her, the more I decide she's definitely related to that candyass Johnny. What with the dark eyes and everything. There's no doubt in my mind she's either his mother or his sister.

"Bob," he repeats louder, but I've had enough of his bullshit, so I get up to leave.

"Well, Dad," I say, approaching the door, "I'm gonna split if that's all you got to tell me."

"Bob wait!" Dad stops me as I turn the doorknob. "Don't leave."

"No, I think I will leave," I reply. "'Sides, you and Jean here look like you've got unfinished business to attend to."

I glare at her, she swallows anxiously, and my father looks like he might slug me. "Robert!" he yells, and for a second, I gloat. There's that anger I've been waiting years for, but I won't hold my breath. It won't last.

"And by the way I failed three classes," I add. "So you can forget about college. I'm not going."

On the way out, I slam every door and rush to my car. If that doesn't piss him off, nothing will, but there's no way in hell I'm waiting around for his reaction. It might never come, and I've got better things to do. As I drive home, I hastily make plans for Randy and me. **We're**. **Getting**. **Blitzed**. **Tonight**. I don't care how or where, but my blood will be half alcohol before the end of the night, and maybe we'll give that Johnny Cade a run for his money, too.

Sure, it's a dumb idea, but who'm kidding? I've been dying to get my hands on him since he sold me that "cocaine", and his mom or sister—whoever the fuck she was—flirting with my dad only makes me want to choke him more.

I pull unto the block, hoping to see Randy outside his house, but I don't, so I keep going until I reach my driveway. When I get out of the car, my mom races to me urgently. "Bob, honey!" she says, catching her breath. "I need you to steer clear of the house for a while. I've got a Tupperware party in ten!"

_Of course_ she's having a Tupperware party; when isn't she having one of those damn lady things? I raise my eyebrows and tell her it won't be a problem. Last place I want to be is the house when she's strutting around, showing off our wealth to all her lady's aide friends.

"Thanks, dear," she says and hurries back into the house. I shake my head and laugh. Part of me had feels inclined to break the news about Jean, but it's not my fault she's oblivious. Maybe if she worried less about being June Cleaver, she'd notice Dad's fucking his secretary.

After she's gone, I start walking to Randy's. Tonight's fun can't hit me soon enough, and before I reach his door, he's already running to join me. Good ol' Randy. Must figure I know where we're going or what we're doing; something like that anyways.

"Jesus, what's with you?" he asks when he catches up, and I grit my teeth. Sometimes he really ought to mind his own goddamn business, but I suppose the jackass only cares, so I reply.

"You know that Johnny kid?" I ask

He snorts. "That kid you brought crushed aspirin from?"

For a moment I want to punch him; to this day he still finds the whole scenario more amusing than he should.

"Yeah, what about him?"

I sigh and debate the best way to spills the beans. _My dad's fucking his mom_ probably isn't the best option. I mean, I still don't know if it's his mom or his sister, but it's all have and I'm too mad to think of anything better so I say it anyways: "My dad's fucking his mom."

When Randy is quiet, I turn to see what the deal is. He probably thinks I'm making it up, but then I remember he always takes a decade to process anything. He looks puzzled, his eyes growing wider by the second. "You … y'sure about that, man?" he asks.

"100 percent," I lie.

"Jesus," Randy replies and struggles to come up with anything more intelligent, but that's okay because what I'm about to say isn't intelligent either. As a matter of fact, it's the poorly thought out plans from ten minutes ago, and the more I think about them, the more I realize how stupid they are, but that isn't going to stop me.

"What do you say we jump his ass?" I smirk and nudge Randy's arm. He immediately looks uncomfortable, so I know it's going to take stronger convincing. "C'mon, Randy," I continue. "It's been far too long since we messed with him or his greasy friends…"

And that's when I get the reaction I want: a small grin spreads across his lips and he nods. "Yeah, when you put it that way, why the hell not?"


End file.
